Tonight's my last night in Vietnam. I'm in Danang, central Vietnam, which is as far south as I've been motivated to venture, baring my flight via Ho Chi Minh City tomorrow morning. It's pretty disturbingly hot here most of the time, and I just didn't have the tourist juice left to attempt a visit to HCMC in the far south. I've come to the conclusion however, that if the guidebook really does a hard sell, attempting to convince readers that a place is more interesting than it first appears, well, it's not a good sign. I'm in Danang because it has an airport, and really, that's it.
Danang's Museum of Cham sculptures is the tourist desination of interest. I spent about a half hour there this afternoon, but the fact that I was starving and tired somewhat impeded my ability to really revel in all the history it had to offer. At least I tried.
So I've come to the poshest restaurant in Danang - partially because it's super close to my hotel and mostly because I felt I deserved an excellent final Vietnamese meal. While I did it completely unconsciously, I find it ironic that instead I ordered sushi and Singapore noodles - food from the two countries still on the 'to do' list on this little adventure.
The wasabi was like, completely over-the-top and snot inducing (sorry about the graphic nature of that), which I think is appropriate given so far Japan's been a pain in the butt to plan. Finding a cheap flight was like the bane of my existence for a week straight. And I've just realized today that I've left it a little late to book accomodation in Japan, given it's high season. I'm so past dorm beds in hostels at this point in my life, but it appears they're the only easy accomodation to book.
I know absolutely zilch about the food for Singapore. Well, other than I'll obviously have to have a Singapore Sling while in town. And according to the expensive new tv commercial campaign currently on all English language tv stations, courtesy of the Singapore tourism board, the city also has some to-die-for desserts. I've done absolutely zero research on Singapore - the joys of staying with friends from home. It's positively decadent to travel to a country (or city state, whatever Singapore is!) and not have to make any plans - I feel spoiled! Anyway, while I don't think Singapore can boast of internationally revered and distinct cuisine like some of the other countries I've visited, my Singapore noodles were satisfying but somewhat lacking in punch. (Which is sort of how I envision Singapore, but I'll have to report back.)
I find I measure countries by how comfortable I am dining out on my own. Paris, for example, is a city that I just can't seem to dine alone in comfortably. I'm constantly self-conscious and feel like I'm inconviencing the wait staff by wandering into their restaurants and expecting to be fed. I didn't quite feel it in Thailand either. That may have something to do with the fact that Thailand seems to attract more than its fair share of two demographics - a) 21 year olds determined to drink their faces off and, b) young couples in their 20s travelling together for the first time, testing whether their love can handle so much quality time together. Vietnam has rocked in this regard (and in many other ways). I've met lots of great, independent travellers to hang out with and share a plate of fresh spring rolls. And even dining on my own, it's fantastic. So I ordered my sushi and noodles and relaxed over a lovely glass of Aussie red, closely watched by two attentive wait staff. Even if Danang is a bit of a dud, good food and drink can cure a lot of things.
Tuesday, May 13, 2008
Superficial Rant about a Towel
The other afternoon I found myself in one of those mortifying situations - you know the type, where you desperately want to extricate yourself from the situation immediately but doing so prematurely would actually make an even larger spectacle of yourself. Mine was of the 'spoilt tourist/sissy girl' variety.
It started out innocently enough. After a hard morning trying to cram myself into tailor-made clothes that didn't fit, I retired to the hotel pool for some R&R. While I was busy blathering on in my journal, my trusty quick-dry towel blew off the back of my lounger and into the very dirty rice paddies below the hotel deck. The deck is about 12 ft above the rice paddy fields, so there was no obvious way to rescue my towel. Now I know, you're thinking, 'it's a freaking towel, get over it', but having travelled with this towel for the last 4 and a half months, I assure you, it is a gem. I bought it in the bargain bin at the Europe Bound store in Toronto and it is a pale pink colour that is offensive to me, but it's a quick dry towel that's almost full-size, and that, my friends, makes it one of my prized possessions. Other travellers I've come across over the last few months have actually expressed a bit of jealousy over my towel, so my attachment to it is justified.
Anyway, after an inquiry with the girl at the reception desk I was supplied with a duster with an extremely long handle to attempt to fish the towel out of the water. While I was able to reach it when I layed down flat on the ground and stretched, the towel at this point was so water-logged that I couldn't get a grip on it. The girl from reception assured me that help was coming, so I sat back down on my lounger and attempted to look as inconspicuous as possible. By this point the Australian lesbian couple who were enjoying beers at a table nearby were chuckling at me and suggested that perhaps I should consider the towel my gift to the nation of Vietnam. I laughed along with them but still hadn't given up on a potential rescue. My 'help' quickly emerged from the hotel - a small middle-aged lady from the cleaning staff who was prepared to lauch herself off the patio and shimmy down a cement pole to rescue my towel, if I'd just help with the launch. Absolutely horrified that she was prepared to do what I was not to retrieve my towel, I communicated as succinctly as possible that the towel wasn't worth it, we would leave it there, and not to worry. She just kept smiling and saying 'you no worry, no problem'. I was horrified. While I wasn't about to shimmy down a cement pole in my bikini, there was no way I wanted her to think that I expected her to do exactly that. (But not in a bikini, obviously.) The Australian couple piped up that maybe I should go after it myself. A part of me felt like I needed to prove to them I wasn't the large sissy girl I appeared to be, but heck, I was that sissy girl, no doubt about it. Thankfully the cleaning lady seemed to understand what I was saying, but still hovered disturbingly close to the edge of the patio. A couple minutes later one of the young boys on staff came out, quickly scrambled down the pole like he could do it in his sleep, and 2 minutes later my very dirty towel had been returned to me.
Feeling ridiculous and highly appreciative of the efforts they'd gone to, I awkwardly attempted to tip both the boy and the cleaning lady. The lady, having felt she'd actually not contributed to the rescue of the towel as she hadn't launched herself off the patio, took a bit of convincing. But I persisted, passed along the tip with a big 'thank-you' and attempted to beat it out of there as quickly as possible. I dropped the now filthy towel off at reception for laundry service, and retreated to my room feeling highly ridiculous.
So imagine my annoyance early this morning when I found out that the hotel laundry service had lost 3 items of clothing - a gaudy but flattering blouse I bought in India, a trusty pair of quick-dry underwear, and yes, the cursed towel. I kicked up a bit of stink - I've had laundry done all over Asia for the last four months and haven't yet lost a thing. (Which I do realize is a small miracle.) The girl at reception, having assured me that they'd checked numerous times, communicated that 'no one would steal your underwear, they can't use them'. I replied that yes, I didn't suspect deliberate theft. I didn't bother getting into the jist of the problem. Every pair of underwear is vital when you're backpacking - so losing a pair that isn't granny style (25% of my undies) or falling apart (another 25% of my undies) is a complete tragedy. As I paid my bill she attempted to smooth things over - discounting my laundry bill a whole $1.60. Given I'd tipped $2.50 for the rescue of the towel, this did little to calm me, but getting into a long conversation would have probably contributed even more to my reputation around the hotel as 'stupid spoiled girl obsessed with her towel' , so I dropped it.
A part of me realizes that this whole incident is highly superficial. And I do feel like a spoiled tourist expecting others to go to such lengths to help me. Clearly I was meant to leave a part of me behind for Vietnam to enjoy. I just wish it didn't have to be my prized quick-dry towel and undies. I'll get over it though, drinking seems to help.
It started out innocently enough. After a hard morning trying to cram myself into tailor-made clothes that didn't fit, I retired to the hotel pool for some R&R. While I was busy blathering on in my journal, my trusty quick-dry towel blew off the back of my lounger and into the very dirty rice paddies below the hotel deck. The deck is about 12 ft above the rice paddy fields, so there was no obvious way to rescue my towel. Now I know, you're thinking, 'it's a freaking towel, get over it', but having travelled with this towel for the last 4 and a half months, I assure you, it is a gem. I bought it in the bargain bin at the Europe Bound store in Toronto and it is a pale pink colour that is offensive to me, but it's a quick dry towel that's almost full-size, and that, my friends, makes it one of my prized possessions. Other travellers I've come across over the last few months have actually expressed a bit of jealousy over my towel, so my attachment to it is justified.
Anyway, after an inquiry with the girl at the reception desk I was supplied with a duster with an extremely long handle to attempt to fish the towel out of the water. While I was able to reach it when I layed down flat on the ground and stretched, the towel at this point was so water-logged that I couldn't get a grip on it. The girl from reception assured me that help was coming, so I sat back down on my lounger and attempted to look as inconspicuous as possible. By this point the Australian lesbian couple who were enjoying beers at a table nearby were chuckling at me and suggested that perhaps I should consider the towel my gift to the nation of Vietnam. I laughed along with them but still hadn't given up on a potential rescue. My 'help' quickly emerged from the hotel - a small middle-aged lady from the cleaning staff who was prepared to lauch herself off the patio and shimmy down a cement pole to rescue my towel, if I'd just help with the launch. Absolutely horrified that she was prepared to do what I was not to retrieve my towel, I communicated as succinctly as possible that the towel wasn't worth it, we would leave it there, and not to worry. She just kept smiling and saying 'you no worry, no problem'. I was horrified. While I wasn't about to shimmy down a cement pole in my bikini, there was no way I wanted her to think that I expected her to do exactly that. (But not in a bikini, obviously.) The Australian couple piped up that maybe I should go after it myself. A part of me felt like I needed to prove to them I wasn't the large sissy girl I appeared to be, but heck, I was that sissy girl, no doubt about it. Thankfully the cleaning lady seemed to understand what I was saying, but still hovered disturbingly close to the edge of the patio. A couple minutes later one of the young boys on staff came out, quickly scrambled down the pole like he could do it in his sleep, and 2 minutes later my very dirty towel had been returned to me.
Feeling ridiculous and highly appreciative of the efforts they'd gone to, I awkwardly attempted to tip both the boy and the cleaning lady. The lady, having felt she'd actually not contributed to the rescue of the towel as she hadn't launched herself off the patio, took a bit of convincing. But I persisted, passed along the tip with a big 'thank-you' and attempted to beat it out of there as quickly as possible. I dropped the now filthy towel off at reception for laundry service, and retreated to my room feeling highly ridiculous.
So imagine my annoyance early this morning when I found out that the hotel laundry service had lost 3 items of clothing - a gaudy but flattering blouse I bought in India, a trusty pair of quick-dry underwear, and yes, the cursed towel. I kicked up a bit of stink - I've had laundry done all over Asia for the last four months and haven't yet lost a thing. (Which I do realize is a small miracle.) The girl at reception, having assured me that they'd checked numerous times, communicated that 'no one would steal your underwear, they can't use them'. I replied that yes, I didn't suspect deliberate theft. I didn't bother getting into the jist of the problem. Every pair of underwear is vital when you're backpacking - so losing a pair that isn't granny style (25% of my undies) or falling apart (another 25% of my undies) is a complete tragedy. As I paid my bill she attempted to smooth things over - discounting my laundry bill a whole $1.60. Given I'd tipped $2.50 for the rescue of the towel, this did little to calm me, but getting into a long conversation would have probably contributed even more to my reputation around the hotel as 'stupid spoiled girl obsessed with her towel' , so I dropped it.
A part of me realizes that this whole incident is highly superficial. And I do feel like a spoiled tourist expecting others to go to such lengths to help me. Clearly I was meant to leave a part of me behind for Vietnam to enjoy. I just wish it didn't have to be my prized quick-dry towel and undies. I'll get over it though, drinking seems to help.
Sunday, May 11, 2008
yes, my thighs really are that big
I've gotten a bit lazy recently - oh, let's be honest, extremely lazy. I'm in Central Vietnam in May which equates to disturbingly humid weather. Just walking a block, I sweat from parts of my body that I didn't actually realize produce sweat. I used to think the only people who sweated profusely from their foreheads and upper lips were overweight old men, but apparently, in the right weather conditions, I can join the ranks of the damp and irritated. Enough on that though - I've probably just crossed some invisible line of good taste with all this chat about me sweating. Anyway, the combination of my laziness and the obscene humidity has me either under an umbrella or in the hotel pool most days between 1 and 4pm. At most other times, I'm shopping.
It seems highly frivolous, but I've spent the last 4 days shopping. I've chosen to get lazy in an excellent location - Hoi An - a paradise for the materialistic and commercial side of me. There are 500 tailors in this town, which basically means if you spit a metre, you'd hit 5 tailor shops. (And they wouldn't mind you spitting if you did some shopping!) It's the low season here right now, and it's very evident that there are not enough tourists here spending adequate amounts of money to keep the locals happy. You cannot make eye contact with anyone, nor can your eyeballs rest for more than a nanosecond on any product that could be sold. Well you can do these things, but then you'll find yourself in an awkward conversation where you can't help but feel rude and crusty because you don't want to buy some peanuts. (I'm not kidding, peanut sellers are on every street corner.) I turn down at least 50 offers a day 'lady, you come buy something', 'lady, I have cold drink for you', 'lady you come see my shop, looking is free'. I made the mistake the other morning of going into the cloth market - a large market full of mostly ugly fabric and small tailor stalls. It was clear that I was the first tourist that had ventured in all morning, because I was practically mobbed like I was a minor superstar. After ordering a dress I was literally dragged to a shoe stall and forced to order a pair of shoes. I mean, yes, I could have escaped, but when they're charging $15 to make me a pair of shoes, it sort of seems really mean to say 'no, too much money'.
Oh, but back to the tailor shops. It took me a couple of days to get warmed up, I'm ashamed to admit. Highly indecisive at the best of times, it was ridiculously stressful for me at first. You know how quite often the friend that you can count on for brutal honesty has a better idea of what clothes look good on you than you do? Well, I was friendless in Hoi An, adrift amongst 500 tailor shops with millions of styles and fabrics to choose from. Life is hard, people, it really is.
What I didn't factor in is when you order a whack of tailor-made clothes, you have to keep returning to the shops for multiple fittings. And, as I mentioned, when you're sweating from every pore of your body, this is a real trial. I mean, it really isn't my idea of a good time to be trying on wool trousers in 35 + degree heat. And of course nothing actually fits at first. I think it's quite possible that after my measurements are taken the sales girl and the tailor confer in the backroom and are in debelief at the width of my hips in relation to my waist. This has been my own personal cross to bare since I hit puberty, but I'm now generously sharing this with the tailoring industry in Hoi An. And I do feel bad about that, because I wouldn't wish this on anyone. (I do believe that in some culture somewhere, my torso-waist-hip ratio is revered as being the ultimate in female beauty, but Vietnam isn't it, unfortunately.) Not believing my measurements to be physically possible, the tailors go ahead and make trousers that they think will fit. But they are wrong, and 4 fittings later, the trousers that accompany my lovely new suit jacket still don't fit. After the second fitting when they realized the seams couldn't be let out any further, they replaced that back panel of the trousers with more material. At the third fitting we discovered that something had gone wrong, as standing still in the trousers produced a wedgie, and they were still too tight in the thighs. At one point this afternoon during my fourth fitting I was surrounded by five sales associates (all petite young Vietnamese women who I could snap in half with my powerful thighs!) all nattering in Vietnamese and gesturing at my hips. I think the rough translation was probably 'ah, look at this cow, can you believe it?'. I was then told that most ladies like a slim fit and my response was 'yes, but I'd like to actually be able to sit in these trousers without cutting off the circulation to my legs'. I'm getting in a taxi tomorrow morning at 10am to leave Hoi An, and hopefully the trousers are in the backpack with me.
For the unfortunate tailor shop that took my order for an Asian-style silk dress, I think there was a lot of celebratory drinking that happened last night after I finally left with the dress, 5 painful fittings later. The poor ladies had to deal with the entirity of my bust-torso-waist-hip ratio - and that really isn't good times at all. First of all, I'm not Asian, so I quickly realized that the style was completely unflattering on me. But you can't really give up at that point, and I think it became a matter of pride for the ladies for the dress not to look like a burlap sack on me. It was touch and go though, and after fitting number four I announced that I'd just take the dress, that I couldn't sweat through another fitting. The ladies were horrified at the idea however, and magically after loosening the bust once, loosening then tightening the torso, and adjusting the waist and hips about 5 bezillion times, the dress actually is wearable.
I met a pain specialist at the ashram in India a couple months ago. Consulting him for the lower back pain I was experiencing at the time, I got a full-body evaluation. Unprovoked, he told that me there was no amount of time in the gym that would whittle my thighs - according to Dr. Pain from Texas, I'm storing massive amounts of negative energy in my thighs. (I suppose that's as good a place as any!) He gave me a series of exercises to do that would, according to Dr. Pain, shrink my thighs to such a point that a new wardrobe would be required. I tried the exercises a few times, but they're like super hard, so I've procrastinated and told myself that I'll do them once I'm home. I'm guessing now the tailors of Hoi An wished that I'd actually toughed it out a bit more!
It seems highly frivolous, but I've spent the last 4 days shopping. I've chosen to get lazy in an excellent location - Hoi An - a paradise for the materialistic and commercial side of me. There are 500 tailors in this town, which basically means if you spit a metre, you'd hit 5 tailor shops. (And they wouldn't mind you spitting if you did some shopping!) It's the low season here right now, and it's very evident that there are not enough tourists here spending adequate amounts of money to keep the locals happy. You cannot make eye contact with anyone, nor can your eyeballs rest for more than a nanosecond on any product that could be sold. Well you can do these things, but then you'll find yourself in an awkward conversation where you can't help but feel rude and crusty because you don't want to buy some peanuts. (I'm not kidding, peanut sellers are on every street corner.) I turn down at least 50 offers a day 'lady, you come buy something', 'lady, I have cold drink for you', 'lady you come see my shop, looking is free'. I made the mistake the other morning of going into the cloth market - a large market full of mostly ugly fabric and small tailor stalls. It was clear that I was the first tourist that had ventured in all morning, because I was practically mobbed like I was a minor superstar. After ordering a dress I was literally dragged to a shoe stall and forced to order a pair of shoes. I mean, yes, I could have escaped, but when they're charging $15 to make me a pair of shoes, it sort of seems really mean to say 'no, too much money'.
Oh, but back to the tailor shops. It took me a couple of days to get warmed up, I'm ashamed to admit. Highly indecisive at the best of times, it was ridiculously stressful for me at first. You know how quite often the friend that you can count on for brutal honesty has a better idea of what clothes look good on you than you do? Well, I was friendless in Hoi An, adrift amongst 500 tailor shops with millions of styles and fabrics to choose from. Life is hard, people, it really is.
What I didn't factor in is when you order a whack of tailor-made clothes, you have to keep returning to the shops for multiple fittings. And, as I mentioned, when you're sweating from every pore of your body, this is a real trial. I mean, it really isn't my idea of a good time to be trying on wool trousers in 35 + degree heat. And of course nothing actually fits at first. I think it's quite possible that after my measurements are taken the sales girl and the tailor confer in the backroom and are in debelief at the width of my hips in relation to my waist. This has been my own personal cross to bare since I hit puberty, but I'm now generously sharing this with the tailoring industry in Hoi An. And I do feel bad about that, because I wouldn't wish this on anyone. (I do believe that in some culture somewhere, my torso-waist-hip ratio is revered as being the ultimate in female beauty, but Vietnam isn't it, unfortunately.) Not believing my measurements to be physically possible, the tailors go ahead and make trousers that they think will fit. But they are wrong, and 4 fittings later, the trousers that accompany my lovely new suit jacket still don't fit. After the second fitting when they realized the seams couldn't be let out any further, they replaced that back panel of the trousers with more material. At the third fitting we discovered that something had gone wrong, as standing still in the trousers produced a wedgie, and they were still too tight in the thighs. At one point this afternoon during my fourth fitting I was surrounded by five sales associates (all petite young Vietnamese women who I could snap in half with my powerful thighs!) all nattering in Vietnamese and gesturing at my hips. I think the rough translation was probably 'ah, look at this cow, can you believe it?'. I was then told that most ladies like a slim fit and my response was 'yes, but I'd like to actually be able to sit in these trousers without cutting off the circulation to my legs'. I'm getting in a taxi tomorrow morning at 10am to leave Hoi An, and hopefully the trousers are in the backpack with me.
For the unfortunate tailor shop that took my order for an Asian-style silk dress, I think there was a lot of celebratory drinking that happened last night after I finally left with the dress, 5 painful fittings later. The poor ladies had to deal with the entirity of my bust-torso-waist-hip ratio - and that really isn't good times at all. First of all, I'm not Asian, so I quickly realized that the style was completely unflattering on me. But you can't really give up at that point, and I think it became a matter of pride for the ladies for the dress not to look like a burlap sack on me. It was touch and go though, and after fitting number four I announced that I'd just take the dress, that I couldn't sweat through another fitting. The ladies were horrified at the idea however, and magically after loosening the bust once, loosening then tightening the torso, and adjusting the waist and hips about 5 bezillion times, the dress actually is wearable.
I met a pain specialist at the ashram in India a couple months ago. Consulting him for the lower back pain I was experiencing at the time, I got a full-body evaluation. Unprovoked, he told that me there was no amount of time in the gym that would whittle my thighs - according to Dr. Pain from Texas, I'm storing massive amounts of negative energy in my thighs. (I suppose that's as good a place as any!) He gave me a series of exercises to do that would, according to Dr. Pain, shrink my thighs to such a point that a new wardrobe would be required. I tried the exercises a few times, but they're like super hard, so I've procrastinated and told myself that I'll do them once I'm home. I'm guessing now the tailors of Hoi An wished that I'd actually toughed it out a bit more!
Tuesday, May 6, 2008
A Day on a Moped
I’m on the back of a moped on a random highway in Vietnam in a rainstorm, wearing a plastic bag, a pink one at that. It’s raining so hard, water is slashing in between my sunglasses and my face, running into my eyes and I can’t actually see anything. Wiping my eyes would mean I’d have to remove my hands from Thai’s waist (the driver), which currently seems like a very bad idea. The rapidly increasing puddles are so large that when we drive through them the friction of the bike's tires seem to be heating up the rain water and my toes are experiencing a warm, high-pressure shower. (I think this may finally wash off the elephant dung that's been clinging to my foul sports sandals for the last 3 weeks.) Oh, and there's a very large vehicle looming up behind us, its size obvious from the gigantic beep of its horn that's rattling about in my helmet-clad brain. A tour bus just thundered past as I managed to crack an eyeball open. The sign I just saw says 65 km back to Hue. Good times. I say that without sarcasm. I could be dry inside that tour bus right now, but how boring would that be?
Given that a mere 2 weeks ago I was skittish about getting on the back of a moped to zip around Hanoi, heading off on a 6 hour moped trip does seem like a bit of a leap, I admit it. But the DMZ, or demilitarized zone is a mopedable distance away from Hue, the city I've been staying in recently, so it seemed like a good idea. And the trip was great. A large bug smacked into my forehead, and left some sort of residue. My guide/driver, Thai, did offer a massage in my hotel room post-ride, but I laughed off the suggestion quite successfully. I toured the Vin Moc tunnels, which apparently are quite authentic. I saw the river that formerly divided North and South Vietnam. I accidentally wandered a little too close to a live mortar area, but Thai yelled at me in time. And I lost feeling in my right thumb after an hour and a half in a rainstorm, but a half hour soak in the tub has restored feeling, so no amputation will be required.
Responsible Tourism?
I’m trying to imagine how I would react if a mini-bus pulled into the mighty village of Thedford, and puked out a half-dozen sweaty tourists onto the sidewalk, all keen for a bit of authentic village life and a chance to spot locals in their natural habitat.
Quick, get your cameras ready, folks, local resident Heather Anderson is just exiting the grocery store. We’re quite lucky - based on the mud splatter pattern on her car it’s clear she’s from a more remote gravel road outside of town. And just as promised - she’s clad in traditional dress common to the area and it looks like she’s having a bad hair day. Yes, you’re right, it does seem she’s sporting pajama bottoms - traditional dress for the unemployed 30-something who’s moved back in with her parents. Now remember to be a responsible tourist and ask permission before you take her photo. Oh, it looks like she’s camera shy today, she’s sprinting back to her car. A back shot will just have to do. Come along everyone, if we hurry down to Caroline’s we can sample the local delicacy, date cookies, and see the village elders gathering over coffee.
Ok, so perhaps I’m exaggerating a bit. But spending 3 days in the northwest of Vietnam, in hill tribe country, has me reflecting on how invasive tourism can be, and the nature of the exchange between locals and tourists. The mountainous north of Vietnam is home to a variety of ethnic minority groups - some who have lived there for thousands of years, others emigrating in the last couple hundred years from China. Land ownership here in Vietnam seems to be a first come first served system, and as a result, many of the tribes eek out a very tough living on the sides of mountains, growing corn on patches of ground so steep that the average tourist would be unable to stand upright. The countryside is absolutely gorgeous, fantastic views. But what tourists really go north to experience is the colourful hill tribe people, the majority of whom wear traditional dress, whether they're ploughing a field of selling postcards.
The guidebooks don't lie. Over 3 days we visited four markets and as many villages and 90% of the women, just going about their business, did so in traditional dress. Each tribe can be identified by their clothing, as head gear, colour schemes and amount and style of ornamentation vary by tribe. We soon discovered which tribe were the most persistent business people, as we were constantly trailed by small ladies and girls, who were ready to sell us the bracelets off their wrists, which seemed very wrong. On one afternoon walking tour through villages that stretched across a valley floor, our group of six tourists was escorted for two and a half hours by 20 women from the Black Hmong tribe. I had a personal escort of 3 ladies and a baby (who was strapped to his mom's back) who stopped with me each time I paused for a photo, and were ready to assist me as I navigated slippery rocks while crossing streams. Their intentions were fairly obvious from the outset - we'll let you wander through our backyards and at the end of the afternoon you will buy some embroidered bags that you neither need nor want.
And here's the bit I find especially interesting - how tourists react to the clearly set out rules of engagement in hill tribe country. As far as I'm concerned, if I'm allowed to wander through small villages, invading their privacy, then sure, it's only fair that I spend a couple dollars on an embroidered whatever that will collect dust in my closet at home. (Well, if I had a home with a closet!) I won't be please if the ladies try to rip me off excessively, but by all means, let's negotiate. Other travellers I've met refused to purchase anything, with the argument that it just 'encourages the behaviour'. I personally think that view of things is a bit naive. The 'behaviour' of trying to support your family is completely legitimate. While it may be unfortunate, you can't expect tourism not to impact remote regions. If tourists can afford to fly halfway around the world to hike through the countryside of Vietnam, how can they balk at spending a couple dollars on hill-tribe souvenirs, when each dollar matters so much to people who have so little?
Ah, enough of my rant. My collection of photos of the ethnic minority people of northwest Vietnam is a series of backside views - partially because I'm not a National Geographic photographer, but primarily because the people there believe photos will capture their spirit. Beyond not wanting to inadvertently snatch someone's spirit, I also find taking close-ups of perfect strangers a complete invasion of their privacy. I mean, would I want my photo taken on the main street of Thedford? Decidedly not. At the end of 3 days I had acquired enough random embroidery that a trip to the post office was required. If the boat from Vietnam ever arrives some of you lucky people may be recipients of some perfectly stunning embroidered handbags. (Note, sarcasm has been engaged.) Please, no fighting, people. Tragically there's enough for all of you.
Quick, get your cameras ready, folks, local resident Heather Anderson is just exiting the grocery store. We’re quite lucky - based on the mud splatter pattern on her car it’s clear she’s from a more remote gravel road outside of town. And just as promised - she’s clad in traditional dress common to the area and it looks like she’s having a bad hair day. Yes, you’re right, it does seem she’s sporting pajama bottoms - traditional dress for the unemployed 30-something who’s moved back in with her parents. Now remember to be a responsible tourist and ask permission before you take her photo. Oh, it looks like she’s camera shy today, she’s sprinting back to her car. A back shot will just have to do. Come along everyone, if we hurry down to Caroline’s we can sample the local delicacy, date cookies, and see the village elders gathering over coffee.
Ok, so perhaps I’m exaggerating a bit. But spending 3 days in the northwest of Vietnam, in hill tribe country, has me reflecting on how invasive tourism can be, and the nature of the exchange between locals and tourists. The mountainous north of Vietnam is home to a variety of ethnic minority groups - some who have lived there for thousands of years, others emigrating in the last couple hundred years from China. Land ownership here in Vietnam seems to be a first come first served system, and as a result, many of the tribes eek out a very tough living on the sides of mountains, growing corn on patches of ground so steep that the average tourist would be unable to stand upright. The countryside is absolutely gorgeous, fantastic views. But what tourists really go north to experience is the colourful hill tribe people, the majority of whom wear traditional dress, whether they're ploughing a field of selling postcards.
The guidebooks don't lie. Over 3 days we visited four markets and as many villages and 90% of the women, just going about their business, did so in traditional dress. Each tribe can be identified by their clothing, as head gear, colour schemes and amount and style of ornamentation vary by tribe. We soon discovered which tribe were the most persistent business people, as we were constantly trailed by small ladies and girls, who were ready to sell us the bracelets off their wrists, which seemed very wrong. On one afternoon walking tour through villages that stretched across a valley floor, our group of six tourists was escorted for two and a half hours by 20 women from the Black Hmong tribe. I had a personal escort of 3 ladies and a baby (who was strapped to his mom's back) who stopped with me each time I paused for a photo, and were ready to assist me as I navigated slippery rocks while crossing streams. Their intentions were fairly obvious from the outset - we'll let you wander through our backyards and at the end of the afternoon you will buy some embroidered bags that you neither need nor want.
And here's the bit I find especially interesting - how tourists react to the clearly set out rules of engagement in hill tribe country. As far as I'm concerned, if I'm allowed to wander through small villages, invading their privacy, then sure, it's only fair that I spend a couple dollars on an embroidered whatever that will collect dust in my closet at home. (Well, if I had a home with a closet!) I won't be please if the ladies try to rip me off excessively, but by all means, let's negotiate. Other travellers I've met refused to purchase anything, with the argument that it just 'encourages the behaviour'. I personally think that view of things is a bit naive. The 'behaviour' of trying to support your family is completely legitimate. While it may be unfortunate, you can't expect tourism not to impact remote regions. If tourists can afford to fly halfway around the world to hike through the countryside of Vietnam, how can they balk at spending a couple dollars on hill-tribe souvenirs, when each dollar matters so much to people who have so little?
Ah, enough of my rant. My collection of photos of the ethnic minority people of northwest Vietnam is a series of backside views - partially because I'm not a National Geographic photographer, but primarily because the people there believe photos will capture their spirit. Beyond not wanting to inadvertently snatch someone's spirit, I also find taking close-ups of perfect strangers a complete invasion of their privacy. I mean, would I want my photo taken on the main street of Thedford? Decidedly not. At the end of 3 days I had acquired enough random embroidery that a trip to the post office was required. If the boat from Vietnam ever arrives some of you lucky people may be recipients of some perfectly stunning embroidered handbags. (Note, sarcasm has been engaged.) Please, no fighting, people. Tragically there's enough for all of you.
Saturday, May 3, 2008
Things Seen on a Moped - Vietnamese Edition
I've been amusing myself recently with an old favorite - entertaining things seen spotted on the back of a moped. I'm finding here in Vietnam, the people are more creative and industrious with what they'll strap to a moped - it transports a lot more than just the odd monk or gaggle of toddlers, as witnessed in Thailand and Cambodia. Tragically I'm usually on a bus and whip by these fascinating scenes too quickly to capture them, but I'm managed to include a couple shots.
Here's a quick list of my favorites.
1. Trees
I've frequently seen trees, complete with root systems and trailing clumps of dirt, strapped to a rack on the back of a moped. And we're not talking about small shrubs, but full-on trees, my friends.
2. Vases
Vases on a moped - seems to me like you're just asking for trouble doing this. Oh, and the size of the vases? Well, that's what makes it truly ridiculous. Last week I saw two vases attached to the back of a moped, and without exaggerating at all, each vase was about as tall as I am. How crazy is that?
3. Piglets in Burlap Sacks
I went to a market last week in northwest Vietnam. The weekly market had an active animal trade business going on, with piglets, dogs and horses doing a brisk business. After trading was done we saw 3 piglets ingeniously strapped to the back of a moped, and the only visible parts of their bodies were their snouts, poking out through holes cut in the bottom of burlap sacks. If you didn't look closely you couldn't even tell what was in the sacks. Oh, except for the occasional squeal that pierced the air - that sort of gave it away.
4. A Moped
Yes, that's right, I saw a moped on a moped. Let me explain. Behind the driver of moped A sat a passenger. The passenger had moped B gripped in his arms, with the front tire balancing precariously on the seat between himself and the driver. Can you imagine if it fell off as they whipped down a highway? OUch!
5. A Bed
Now, I have entitled this one 'bed' for dramatic effect. It was actually a headboard and footboard for a bed, with the headboard on one moped and the footboard on another. Still, I was mildly amused.
6. Dogs
Ok, this one actually makes me pretty nauseous. The Vietnamese eat pretty much anything they can catch. This, unfortunately includes dogs. I met some truly obnoxious Americans last week who seemed to be proud that they'd sampled dog from a Vietnamese restaurant. They deserved to be slapped - partially for being obnoxious Americanos, but mostly for eating dogs. (In my opinion it's one thing to eat dog because it's part of your culture, but it's another thing entirely to do it just so you can run home to your idiot friends with a story. Stupid people can be found everywhere - they don't stay at home, unfortunately.) Ok, enough ranting. Back to how this relates to mopeds. On a highway the other day our bus passed a couple of mopeds, each with two cages loaded on the the seat behind the driver. The cages had about 4 small-medium sized dogs squished into each one, so I imagine I saw about a dozen dogs out for their last joy ride. As we drove past I saw one sloppy pink tongue whipping about in the wind, so the pup on top of the pile was enjoying himself, but the rest looked miserable. Who can blame them? (Now granted, I found this more traumatic than the piglets, and they were on their way to an eventual death as well. But somehow, its very, very different.)
7. Me in a Pink Garbage Bag
I just spent 5 hours on the back of a moped, touring the demilitarized zone. An hour and a half of that was in a downpour. Seriously good times.
Here's a quick list of my favorites.
1. Trees
I've frequently seen trees, complete with root systems and trailing clumps of dirt, strapped to a rack on the back of a moped. And we're not talking about small shrubs, but full-on trees, my friends.
2. Vases
Vases on a moped - seems to me like you're just asking for trouble doing this. Oh, and the size of the vases? Well, that's what makes it truly ridiculous. Last week I saw two vases attached to the back of a moped, and without exaggerating at all, each vase was about as tall as I am. How crazy is that?
3. Piglets in Burlap Sacks
I went to a market last week in northwest Vietnam. The weekly market had an active animal trade business going on, with piglets, dogs and horses doing a brisk business. After trading was done we saw 3 piglets ingeniously strapped to the back of a moped, and the only visible parts of their bodies were their snouts, poking out through holes cut in the bottom of burlap sacks. If you didn't look closely you couldn't even tell what was in the sacks. Oh, except for the occasional squeal that pierced the air - that sort of gave it away.
4. A Moped
Yes, that's right, I saw a moped on a moped. Let me explain. Behind the driver of moped A sat a passenger. The passenger had moped B gripped in his arms, with the front tire balancing precariously on the seat between himself and the driver. Can you imagine if it fell off as they whipped down a highway? OUch!
5. A Bed
Now, I have entitled this one 'bed' for dramatic effect. It was actually a headboard and footboard for a bed, with the headboard on one moped and the footboard on another. Still, I was mildly amused.
6. Dogs
Ok, this one actually makes me pretty nauseous. The Vietnamese eat pretty much anything they can catch. This, unfortunately includes dogs. I met some truly obnoxious Americans last week who seemed to be proud that they'd sampled dog from a Vietnamese restaurant. They deserved to be slapped - partially for being obnoxious Americanos, but mostly for eating dogs. (In my opinion it's one thing to eat dog because it's part of your culture, but it's another thing entirely to do it just so you can run home to your idiot friends with a story. Stupid people can be found everywhere - they don't stay at home, unfortunately.) Ok, enough ranting. Back to how this relates to mopeds. On a highway the other day our bus passed a couple of mopeds, each with two cages loaded on the the seat behind the driver. The cages had about 4 small-medium sized dogs squished into each one, so I imagine I saw about a dozen dogs out for their last joy ride. As we drove past I saw one sloppy pink tongue whipping about in the wind, so the pup on top of the pile was enjoying himself, but the rest looked miserable. Who can blame them? (Now granted, I found this more traumatic than the piglets, and they were on their way to an eventual death as well. But somehow, its very, very different.)
7. Me in a Pink Garbage Bag
I just spent 5 hours on the back of a moped, touring the demilitarized zone. An hour and a half of that was in a downpour. Seriously good times.
Friday, April 25, 2008
Hello Tuk-Tuk*
As a tourist in Asia, I can't walk more than a couple metres in a medium-sized city without having someone yell at me, 'Hello Tuk-Tuk*'. The vocabulary changes a bit depending on the country. In Laos and Thailand it's 'Hello Tuk-Tuk', but in India it changes to 'Hello Rickshaw'. From what I've deduced based on my first 5 minutes on the streets in Hanoi, in Vietnam, it's 'Hello Moto'.
Regardless of the country, my irritation is universal. The rational part of me knows they're just enterprising small businessmen trying to earn a living. But here's my perspective - I'm an adult, who, on a good day, can make my own decisions. So if I'm walking down a street I'm probably doing so with some vague purpose in mind, making my way from point A to point B, and I've most likely already worked out in my head my chosen mode of transport for this journey. So you yelling 'Hello Tuk-Tuk' at me as I walk with purpose away from you is not suddenly going to change my mind and create a fare for you. It's just going to irritate me, and then I get crusty, and then the whole world feels it, from the pissy look on my face.
My friend Lisa tried to experiment with the drivers in Vientiane on our last day in Laos. In response to 'Hello Tuk-Tuk' she replied cheekily, 'Hello, but no, my name is actually Lisa'. It's hard to make a point like this when the English comprehension is limited to the obnoxious 'Hello Tuk-Tuk' greeting and negotiating fares, so her attempt at humour was met with a blank stare. But I silently applauded the sentiment behind her efforts.
My first full day in Hanoi I ignored about a hundred invitations to jump on the back of a motorcycle, because, as I explained, I already had a plan. To attempt to orient myself to the maze that is the old quarter in Hanoi, where I'm staying this week, I deliberately followed a walking tour provided in my constant companion, the Lonely Planet guidebook. I was quite proud of myself upon completion of the tour - not one wrong turn in 3 hours. And given I usually abdicate map reading responsibility to whoever my companion is, this was a big deal.
I also admit, the suspicious part of my nature - the part that occasionally worries about the worst possible outcome in a scenario and then obsesses for a stupid amount of time till I start to lose sleep - yeah, that part of me, well it was more than a little skeptical about the casual nature of this motorcycle-taxi system in Hanoi. There are something like 3 million motorcycles/mopeds in the city of Hanoi for a population of about 3.5 million people. So there's thousands of random guys on corners ready to take you wherever you want to go, even if you don't want them to. And I find it all a bit too casual - what's stopping a complete psychopath with the knowledge of a few key phrases in English, the required moto and spare helmet, to pick up unsuspecting potential passengers - one preferably who has just arrived in the city and knows no landmarks - and zipping off to an alleyway somewhere and bludgeoning said tourist to death?
So with these thoughts running through my suspicious head, it took 24 hours for me to stop panicking, trust the universe, and take someone up on their offer. I actually find the offer of a helmet comforting - it says without words, and possibly, any sincerity, 'I'm at least conscious that I should be worried about your safety as we weave in amongst crazy speeding traffic'. It goes without saying that I was ripped off. In this area the Lonely Planet continually fails me - yes, I do suck at negotiating, but the price is always at least 30% more than the guidebook says it should be. After getting within 10,000 dong of the guidebook's estimate for my first ride, I donned a pink helmet and we took off for the Ho Chi Minh Mausoleum complex, where Uncle Ho's body has been on display since his death in the early 1970s. Stupidly I didn't read the guidebook and failed to realize that he's only available for viewing for 2 hours in the morning, so we arrived 15 minutes too late. (I don't blame him - if my body had been pickled against my wishes, I'd be a bit ornery about being gawked at as well). My second ride with driver number two was frustrating, but educational. What I have to surrender to is my wishes are insignificant in the transaction. We decided on two destinations, the Temple of Literature, which was nearby, and the Museum of Ethnology, which was 7km out of central Hanoi, and barely on my guidebook map. My driver's vision of things was that he would wait for me at the museum, and then take me shopping, basically spending the whole day in my company for a ridiculously large fare. After a lengthy airing of my perspective he finally accepted that I wanted to be left at the museum. Clearly this wasn't what he wanted to hear, and decided to retaliate, because he dropped me off a couple blocks from the museum - translation - in the middle of nowhere - with the vague instruction that I just go up the street to buy the ticket. I recognize now that given I was paying him money I should have insisted on being dropped off right in front of the museum. But he'd sneakily dropped me at some other random tourist destination in the same vicinity, and I'd gullibley gone along with it. Yes, dense, very dense move on my part. About 2 seconds after he'd taken off I ascertained that I wasn't where I wanted to be, no one spoke English, and my crappy map was useless. But that's the thing in Hanoi, as I mentioned, you're always within spitting distance of another moto driver eager to take you somewhere, even if they don't know how to get there. That was the problem with driver #3 - he acted like he knew where he was going when we first started to mime at each other, but once we'd spent 15 minutes circling the same few blocks, it was clear he was lost. Panic sort of set in at this point, and while I didn't fear for my safety, I was very conscious of my stupidity and naivety - which is this case had combined to find me on the back of a motorcycle in a foreign city, with absolutely no idea where I was. Thankfully at an intersection my driver finally found someone who knew where the museum was and he quickly took me there - we'd passed the spot 10 minutes earlier from the wrong direction and hadn't seen the sign. We then argued about the fare - he wanted $3 U.S. dollars for a trip that should have taken about 30 seconds, and well, Heather was pissy and tired of being taken advantage of. So I mimed that he was crazy, and walked off, having paid him $1. A small victory, and for the next half hour I felt guilty about it, but I had to strike back at the Hanoi moto-taxi industry, no matter how feebly!
What am I doing tomorrow? Walking. And no one will convince me otherwise.
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